


Would You Rather

by msred



Series: Starting Over [3]
Category: Actor RPF, American (US) Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, POV First Person, POV Original Female Character, Silly, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:20:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25049053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msred/pseuds/msred
Summary: I just needed to hear a friendly voice. It doesn't get much friendlier than his.
Relationships: Chris Evans (Actor) & Original Female Character(s), Chris Evans (Actor) & Reader, Chris Evans (Actor) & You, Chris Evans (Actor)/Original Female Character(s), Chris Evans (Actor)/Reader, Chris Evans (Actor)/You
Series: Starting Over [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1423663
Comments: 20
Kudos: 31





	Would You Rather

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Maybe Someday We Could Be Friends](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20221453) by [msred](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msred/pseuds/msred). 



> This little piece actually falls smack in the middle of "Maybe Someday ...," falling the night after the Thanksgiving mentioned in that one.

_ 4 months since first meeting (November, Year 1) _

Thanksgiving is  _ the  _ family holiday. Sure, Christmas brings families together, but it often ends up being more about gifts, and decorations, and even shopping, than family. I love Christmas, I love the kindness and warmth and nostalgia and even the flavors and smells that come along with it, I always have, that’s not the point I’m trying to make here. (And besides, for me, those positive feelings often had little to do with my family.) The point I’m trying to make is that Thanksgiving is the one holiday that is truly about family more than anything else. There’s the food, of course, but when it comes down to it, isn’t food about bringing people together? And there’s the parade, and football - watching or playing - but again, both of those really just serve to bring families together in a common venture. And after the parade and the meal and the games are over, most families end up sprawled around whatever home they gathered in, talking, sharing, bonding. 

That’s what Thanksgiving was for me when I was a kid, sort of. The family gathered, the parade and football took over the television, and there was always plenty of food. There was also always plenty of frustration, conflict, often even yelling. So as soon as I got married, my husband and I made changes to the way we celebrated the holiday. In the over 12 years we were married, we spent Thanksgiving with our families less than a handful of times. At our closest point, we were a 10-hour drive away from them, and at our farthest we were in a different country. It was easy to blame the distance for why we chose to stay wherever we happened to be at the time. Some years he wasn’t even around, deployed to some far-off location instead. Those years I usually just stayed wherever I was and pretended the holiday wasn’t happening, that it was any other day - except the football, that I still took part in. Other years we would spend the day with people he worked with, people who were in the same position that we were. Honestly, that often felt more like what Thanksgiving ‘should’ be than any one I’d ever spent with my actual family. There were some people I missed, of course - my grandparents, my niece Haleigh, once she came along - but I certainly couldn’t say that I missed my mother’s passive aggressiveness or my brother’s straight-up aggressiveness, my (step) father’s drinking, or the fights and screaming matches that almost always ensued as a result of all those things combined.

Then came the first Thanksgiving after my husband died. It wasn’t my first one alone, strictly speaking, since as I’ve said, I typically spent them alone when he was deployed, including the previous year, but still, it was a new, even more painful kind of alone. A few co-workers had seemed confused by my reluctance to go back and spend the weekend with my family, and my mother had basically demanded it. The thing was, the idea of going back and spending the family holiday with my own family, and almost certainly my in-laws, to an extent, was even less appealing than it had been for the previous 13 holidays. I’d been home since he’d died, of course, for the memorial service and then again over my spring break, just because there were some things of his that I wanted to give to his mom and dad and sister and because I was still just vulnerable enough that I thought it might be good for me to spend some time with my family (and because my pain over my husband’s death had managed to make me forget how much pain they often caused me, with the exception of my grandparents, who were like a soothing balm to my soul when I managed to be with them alone). 

I used the old familiar excuse of the long weekend still being too short to make the trip worthwhile, but honestly, the thought of going back for Thanksgiving, on top of giving me extreme anxiety at the prospect of dealing with my overwhelming, combative family, had me convinced that spending the holiday with them would only make me feel, even more acutely, how much I’d lost and how alone I was, would only emphasize the fact that I no longer had my husband, my partner in one way or another for over half my life. So instead I made plans with one of my best friends, a former co-worker with a kind, funny husband and an adorable toddler, to spend the day with her and her family. 

It had been a nice day, exactly what Thanksgiving felt like it should be - the parade was on tv, followed by football, there was just the right abundance of food, there was family (even if it didn’t happen to be my own), and, a phrase I  _ never  _ thought I would say, there was a brief video call from one of my newest, yet, honestly, closest friends, Chris Evans (and Dodger).

And it was that video call that I was thinking about as I sat on my couch the next night, chewing the inside of my lip and drumming my fingers on the back of my phone as I stared at the blackened screen.  _ If you get bored or lonely later, even later this weekend, call me. Promise?  _ That’d been the last thing he’d said, and I’d smiled and nodded, humming a noncommittal  _ I promise  _ before we both waved at our cameras and disconnected the call. I wasn’t bored. And I was a bit lonely, but that wasn’t what had me considering taking him up on his offer. Finally I shook my head, rolling my eyes at myself, and reminded myself that the day before wasn’t the first time he’d suggested I call him, he’d been doing it for a while, once even making it a point to tell me that he felt a little awkward that he was always the one making the calls between the two of us. He’d said it jokingly, but something told me there was some truth behind it. So I unlocked the phone, pulled up his name in my contacts (“Andy Rogers,” because the last thing I needed was some high school kid managing to hack their way into my phone and finding his real name in my contact list), and hit the ‘call’ button, holding my breath as it rang on the other end of the line.

“Hey!” His voice was loud and boisterous when he answered, so much so that I began to second-guess my original assessment about the timing of my call - that it was late enough that I wouldn’t be interrupting dinner but not so late that I would be interrupting a night out, if that’s how he was spending his long weekend. “Hey, you there?” He asked, a little more calmly, when I didn’t answer at first.

“Yeah,” I shook my head a little, “yeah, sorry.”

“No worries. Everything okay? You’ve only called me first, what, once? Before. And I’m pretty sure there was no theatre competition today,” he said teasingly.

“Yeah, I’m -,” I let my voice trail off, because to straight-up say that everything was good would be dishonest, but I didn’t really want to get into it, either. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything - family time, or, or friend time, or, anything?”

“No! No, not at all,” I could hear a little bit of rustling on his end and it sounded like he was getting up and moving around. “I mean, my brother’s here, but that’s just ‘cause this is where he stays when he’s in town. We’re just getting an early start on the Christmas movies.”

“Oh,” I said a little too quickly. I was nervous, and for as much as I didn’t want him to, I was sure he could tell. Normally I loved how well he seemed to read me, it made me feel less of a compulsion to try to ‘fake it’ around him. But for some reason I didn’t want him to know that  _ he  _ was making me nervous. “If it’s a bad time -”

“Hey, no, seriously. Not at all. It’s just Scott, nothing important.”

“Asshole!” I heard from somewhere in the distance, but there was no heat in it, and immediately after I heard Chris laugh, followed by the sound of a door clicking shut.

“Okay, seriously, is everything alright? You sound … is anything wrong?” His voice was tinged with concern, even through the phone, and a gentle tingle ran down my spine.

“Yeah, no, it’s just,” I tried again to find a way to avoid lying to him while also avoiding telling him the truth. Almost from the moment I’d met him (once I got past my initial embarrassment) I’d felt at ease, much, much more than I could ever have imagined that I would with someone I’d had a crush on since watching him literally burst into flames on my tv screen. Then, after that day in my house, when he’d held me as I sobbed, truly letting myself go for the first time since my husband had been killed, he’d become the one person who I felt comfortable, safe, being completely open, even vulnerable, with. He’d become my best friend. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that not long before I’d called him I’d gotten off the phone with my mother, a conversation during which she’d repeatedly pointed out to me, passive-aggressively, of course, how much I’d let down the family by not coming home, how I’d broken my grandmother’s and my niece’s hearts, how I’d disrespected my late husband’s family, and even his memory, by putting his family and my own second to people I’d known for only a few years. I just couldn’t bring myself to admit that to him, not when he was in Massachusetts soaking in the love and warmth of his own picture-perfect family. “I just needed to hear a friendly voice.”

“Oh,” his voice was playful, excited, almost, “well hey, I can definitely do that.”

I smiled and hoped he could hear it in my voice. “That’s what I was counting on.”

“So how was the rest of your Thanksgiving?” he asked. I heard rustling again, and I imagined him settling comfortably into a cozy chair, maybe a couch, his bed even. I squeezed my eyes shut and shook the image from my brain. “Did you fulfill your  _ toddler whisperer  _ duties?”

I chuckled. “I did. We had to wake him up when his grandparents arrived, actually.”

“Nice. Good with the bigger kids and the little ones. That’s … nice.” I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so I only hummed. He seemed to feel the awkwardness too, because he cleared his throat and went on, changing the subject. “And dinner? Were you able to enjoy a meal that someone else cooked for you, and not the other way around?”

“Okay,” I pretended to be indignant, “I can let go and let other people take charge. I'm not some control freak." He scoffed. “No more than you,” I accused.

He only laughed, “Yeah, that’s not saying much.”

“Dinner was great,” I answered a little petulantly. I was almost certain he’d know I was playing the whole thing up and not actually being a snot.

“Oh! Okay!” He talked animatedly, like he was answering a question I hadn't actually asked or responding to some fun suggestion I didn't know I'd made. “I’ve got an idea, let’s play a game.”

I found myself laughing under my breath. “A game? Should I be scared?”

“Yeah! And no. It’s harmless, I promise.”

“Well, if you promise.” I said it as a joke, my voice teasing, but I really did mean it. I had no reason not to trust him and every reason to want to.

“Thanksgiving food, what’s the  _ actual  _ star, the turkey, or the sides?”

My mouth gaped for a second. His sudden change of subject made my head spin. “I thought we were going to play a game?”

“We are! You know the whole  _ would you rather _ thing, I give you two options and you have to pick one?”

I narrowed my eyes and couldn’t help but grin, and if he’d been able to see me he would have taken it as a challenge. “I’m familiar with it, yes.” I was more than familiar; I had multiple sets of  _ Would You Rather  _ cards that I used both as bonding activities with my theatre kids and improv scene starters in my drama class.

“Well then, turkey, or sides?”

“Oh,” I scoffed, “sides 100%. I mean, turkey is …” I trailed off, trying to find a word for what I was trying to say, “turkey.”

“Wow, that’s, that’s insightful.”

“Oh hush, you,” I was grinning as I said it, though. “You know what I mean, there’s nothing special about it. But the sides are where it’s really at. Green bean casserole, sweet potatoes, ahh,” I rolled my eyes up toward the ceiling as I sighed, “stuffing.”

He laughed, the sound muffled like he was trying to cover it, then, “Okay.” There was a deep level of thoughtfulness to his voice, so much so that I knew it was put on, “Okay. That’s an acceptable answer. Alright, your turn.”

“Wait, what about you?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean, I don’t wanna play this game if it doesn’t go both ways. You ask a question, I answer, then you answer. So, turkey, or sides?”

Chris sighed deeply on the other end of the phone, and it would be easy for me to worry that I was actually annoying or even frustrating him. I didn’t though, because somehow, I just knew better. And  _ God _ , I thought,  _ this is why I called him _ . I was already so distracted by his antics that I’d nearly completely let go of that last conversation I’d had. “Fine,” he finally huffed, “I guess I can live with that. Good thing you're not a control freak.” I gasped in mock offense, but I also smiled a little wider. “I’m with you on this one. The sides definitely beat out the bird.”

“Good taste,” I told him, and laughed under my breath when I heard him hum his self-satisfaction. “Okay,” I hummed and, though he couldn’t see me, tapped my index finger against my lips as I shifted on the couch, turning until my back pressed into the arm and my legs stretched in front of me along the cushions, “alright, got one. Beach, or mountains?”

“Wait a second,” his voice was a little high-pitched and incredulous sounding. “I give you Thanksgiving food and you come back with  _ beach _ or  _ mountains _ ? How is that fair?”

“Oh come on, it’s not like I asked something deep and personal.”

“Sure you did. We’re talking connection to nature here, what’s more deep and personal than that?” He actually had me on that one for a second, but while I thought about how exactly I should respond, I heard him snicker.

I huffed out a sigh and dropped my head back as far as it would go. “Just answer the damn question, Chris.” He laughed and I scooted farther down into the couch cushions, finally laying on my back with my head propped on the pillow I’d been leaning against. Millie stood in the recliner she’d been napping in on the other side of the room and stretched, groaning a little, before jumping down and trotting over to me to sit in front of the couch with her chin propped right next to my hip. I switched my phone to the other ear to free up the hand closer to her to scratch between her ears. 

“Okay, okay,” his deep chuckle rolled just under the words. “I’m not a huge beach guy. Dodger likes it, so I take him now and then when I’m on the west coast, but if I’m choosing between beach and mountains, drop me on a mountain in the middle of nowhere any day.” I wondered a little bit how much of that mindset was a product of what he did and the lack of privacy he faced because of it, but somehow I thought he’d probably always been that way, at least a little bit. It just seemed to fit him. “Okay missy,” he went on, and I refocused on what he was saying, “as per  _ your  _ rules, let’s hear it, beach or mountains?”

I exhaled long and hard through my mouth. “I mean,” I sighed a little harshly, “that’s tough.”

“Oh no no no no. I don’t think so. I answered, now you have to.”

“It’s just, well, okay,” he giggled at me and my indecisiveness. “Okay fine. There’s something like, decadent about the idea of laying on a chair on the beach at some resort and having a waiter bring me drinks while I just lay in the sun and read a book. But honestly, it’s always too crowded, and sweaty, and sand gets  _ everywhere  _ it shouldn’t be,” he outright laughed at that, “and it just never lives up to the ideas I have in my head. I mean, I live like 20 minutes from the beach now and when I go I never stay for more than a couple hours.” I’d actually taken him to the nearest beach the last time he’d been in town, but it was the off-season and all we’d done was walk the seawall and take some pictures. That was a nice day, with a nice view and the sounds of the waves, but it wasn’t exactly a ‘beach trip.’ “But give me a two-room cabin in the mountains somewhere, a fireplace if you wanna get really fancy, and I’m a happy girl.”

He hummed then and it sounded like he was actually thinking, not teasing me like he’d done before. “I like that,” he finally said, softly. I wasn’t sure why it mattered so much to me, but I was glad he approved of my answer.

Millie had slid to the floor as I petted her, out of my reach, and I brought my hand up to rest the back of it on my forehead, my eyes drifting closed as Chris thought, I assumed, about his next question for me. I’d told him I called because I needed to hear a friendly voice. And that was 100% true. But I was realizing how comfortable I was with him in the moments of silence, too. That was odd for me with anyone. My anxiety tended to tell me that all periods of silence were awkward and that they were happening because I was failing the conversation in some way. That didn’t happen with him, though. Maybe it was because he’d simply sat with me and let me cry for many long minutes so early in our friendship (I hadn’t even realized we  _ were  _ friends, actually, until right after that moment) or maybe it just  _ was _ . Either way, it was nice, relaxing, laying there on my back on the couch, stretching my toes toward the opposite arm and just waiting for him to say something.

Finally, “Okay, I got one.”

“Go for it,” I grinned.

“Basketball, or football?” His voice was far too satisfied and with my eyes closed as I lay back I could see him, one eyebrow raised and a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. He knew exactly what he’d done; we’d had a version of that conversation before, when he teased me about my passionate response to a college football game.

“I,” I started, “well that’s,” I pushed myself up and even turned so I could plant my feet on the floor, “I don’t like this game anymore.”

He laughed, loudly, and I rolled my eyes and shook my head as I pressed myself back against the couch cushions. He was enjoying my pain a little too much. “Too bad, sweetheart.” He went quiet then, suddenly, and cleared his throat. “You gotta answer,” he added, more calmly.

“Okay, well,” I took a deep breath, “to start, that question needs context.” He hummed then, almost a  _ go on.  _ “I mean, I will watch pretty much any football, NFL down to high school, and usually enjoy it. I mean, in the fall, every weekend, Friday through Sunday, is fully devoted to it. I go watch my kids on Friday nights, college football all day on Saturday, and NFL on Sunday. It’s just, that’s the way it is. Even if I’m not 100% keyed in every second, that’s what’s on.” He hummed again, and somehow I felt I could tell a difference between that one and the previous one - if the first had been encouragement to keep going, that one was agreement, even appreciation. “Even Thursday and Monday, depending on how much work I have to do for school. But,” I sighed heavily, almost agonized, “I mean, if we’re talking actual  _ attachment  _ to something, emotional connection, investment, pretty much nothing in the world, sports and entertainment-wise, compares to Kentucky basketball. It’s just,” I trailed off, considering my next words, “it’s in my blood. So, I dunno, call me a cheater, if you want, but that’s the best I can do. There’s no way to just, blindly pick one sport or the other with no context.”

“Okay, okay, I guess I’ll let you have that.”

“Well,” I snarked, “thank you for your generosity.” He laughed. “Do I even need to ask -”

“Football,” he cut me off. 

“You know, I’m beginning to think maybe you did that on purpose, asked a question you knew would cause me  _ actual pain _ but that you didn’t even have to think about. I mean, I really already knew that.”

“Oookay,” he drawled, “in my defense, I’ve been answering questions about myself publicly for about 20 years now. I can’t help that you already know way more about me than I know about you.”

“I’m starting to question the motives of your little game, Mr. Evans.”

His voice was sugary sweet when he answered, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I only grunted. “But hey, it’s your turn.”

I tried to think of something good, something that would be as tough for him as the one he’d just asked me, maybe even something meaningful that would actually tell me more about who he was as a person. There was always the Disney fallback, but I knew he’d been asked that before in interviews. I couldn’t ask him anything about his family, given that the nature of the game meant choosing between two things and that would just be mean. I could ask him something about his work, acting or directing, maybe, but we were playing a game between friends, and I wanted to keep it that way. I didn’t want it to feel like a work interview for him. There was always the political route, but again, that felt too much like work. And I had a pretty good idea of where he stood on most political issues anyway, which was just about right where I stood. I tried to think of the kinds of things friends knew about each other, the things they discovered in the early stages of a friendship, but he was the first new friend I’d made in so long that it was difficult to come up with anything. 

Finally, it came to me. It was personal, but not overly so, as there was still plenty of room for him to make it playful and funny if he wanted. It assumed that I knew some things about him, but it was information I was confident I was right about. And it had nothing at all to do with his work and, as far as I knew, had never been asked in an interview. “Okay, you want kids, right?”

“Uh,” he paused, and once again, I felt like if I closed my eyes I could picture him, brows furrowed, lips pursed, head tilted a little to one side. “Yeah. I mean, I always assumed I would have a few. I’m a big, big family guy.” I nodded, though he couldn’t see me. “But that’s not a  _ would you rather _ .”

“No, I know, I just had to make sure I was right about that first. So then, you want kids, boy or girl? I mean, all other things equal, healthy baby, healthy mother, and no judgment from me one way or the other, I promise, would you want a boy, a little mini-you, or a girl whose finger you could get all wrapped around.”

“Okay, first of all, that’s sexist.”

My eyes went wide and I sucked in a breath. “No,” I shook my head frantically as I spoke and sat up straight again, “like I said, no judgment, I mean, I don’t think -”

He cut me off. “I mean, who are you to say that a little boy couldn’t get me  _ just  _ as wrapped around his finger as a little girl?”

I exhaled heavily, feeling silly for getting so worried and worked up about his teasing. “Okay, okay, that’s fair. Fine, so in addition to a healthy baby and healthy mom, either option is equally likely to have you completely whipped.” I smirked to myself when I heard his scoff, “Boy or girl?”

“I mean, I would just want -”

“No!” I cut him off, adamant, even going so far as to throw an index finger up in the air in front of my own face since I couldn't do so to him, “No, you don’t get to do that.”

“Do what?”

“ _ I would just want a healthy, happy baby. Blah blah blah.” _

“But I  _ would _ , though.”

“Well yeah,” I scoffed and rolled my eyes, sinking back into the couch cushions again and swinging my legs up so I lay on my side, my head on a pillow and the arm not holding the phone shoved under it. “Any decent human wants that. But that’s not the game. The game is you have to choose one. So what’ll it be, mister, a little mini-you, or you gonna be a girl-dad?”

I heard him groan through the phone and I grinned, satisfied. “Okay fine, fine. But you got to give context last time, so I get to give context this time.”

“Of course. It’s only fair.”

“Okay” he sighed, “well, okay,” I had to hold back my giggle at his obvious discomfort. “So the thing is, I consider myself to be a fairly evolved guy, you know?”

“Mm-hmm,” I hummed, still smiling.

“But there’s a part of me that can’t help but worry that if I do ever have a little girl, this tiny sweet little thing who depends on me for like, everything - well, half of everything, anyway - I’ll revert to like, my caveman brain, you know? I don’t ever want to be one of those dads who thinks his daughter like,  _ belongs _ to him, in that creepy way that some dads do, or gets all psycho when she talks to boys. But I'm afraid my desire to protect her could morph into that without me realizing it.”

Oh. That was, well, it wasn’t what I expected. Yes, I’d wanted to find a question that was just personal enough, just difficult enough, to make him squirm a little, but I hadn’t expected him to get quite so, well, deep. I felt a little bad for taking our game and making it into something so serious, but I also felt flattered, maybe even a little special, that he was being so open with me. I considered stopping him - it felt unfair that he was sharing so much more than I had - but I couldn’t think of a way to do so that wasn’t abrupt or rude or awkward. So I let him go on.

“There’s another part of me, though, that worries I’d be just the  _ worst  _ influence on a boy.”

“What? No, you would not be a bad influence. At all.”

He scoffed, maybe even laughed a little. “You can say that because you didn’t know me when I was younger. Hell, half the time  _ now _ I’m totally inappropriate. Did I, is that,” he laughed in earnest then, but it sounded a little nervous, “am I off the hook yet? I think I answered that at least as much as you answered mine.”

I found myself biting my lower lip and smiling a little softer than I had been before. “Yeah, you’re off the hook.”

He exhaled heavily, “Thank god.” I giggled and he waited until I was finished to go on. “You know there’s no way I’m giving you a pass though, right? You put me through hell, you’re gonna answer that question too. And don’t try to -”

“Boy,” I answered before he even finished his would-be lecture.

“Oh.” His voice gave away his surprise. “I expected that to be a little more difficult.”

“If teaching middle and high school for almost 10 years has taught me anything, it’s that teenaged girls are  _ terrible  _ to each other. They’re all either mean girls, or victims of mean girls.”

His voice was a little softer when he asked, “Which were you?”

I chuckled through my nose. “I guess maybe that depends on who you ask. Two sides to every story, right?” He hummed, but it sounded unconvinced. “Anyway, I’m just not sure how good I would be at fielding girl drama on a full-time basis. Not that boys don’t have issues or  _ drama _ , but it’s always so much more,” I trailed off, searching for the right word, “practical,” I finally landed on. 

“Practical drama, huh?” Chris laughed.

“Yeah, ya know, more straightforward, with more of an answer or solution.” I wasn’t really thinking about the next words that came out of my mouth before they were just  _ out there _ . “Besides, if I was ever going to have a kid, I’d much rather get to focus on teaching a little boy how to be a good man who doesn’t hurt women than have to worry about teaching a little girl how not to get hurt by men.” I hadn’t meant to get so serious, but I really did feel that way, and I just seemed to do that with him, say more than I meant to.

“I’m guessing you’re not talking about a broken heart.”

“Nope.” I may not have intended to go there, but once I had, I wasn’t going to walk it back.

He sighed, “Yeah, I was afraid not. You know,” he started, then trailed off, and I heard a clicking noise, like maybe he was tapping his fingernail on a desk, or even the back of his phone, “if you need … I don’t know, anything …”

I could tell how uncomfortable he was, and I didn’t think it was because he didn’t want to offer his help, or a listening ear. “No, really,” I assured him, “I’m fine.” I paused to give him a chance to say something, but he didn’t, so after a moment I went on. “Seriously. I was talking about my fear if I ever had a little girl, based on, just, the world. But hey, hypothetical, right? It’s not like I actually need to worry about this.” I realized what I’d just said, and as strange as it may sound, that last sentence was the part where I realized I’d actually gone too far, said something I would have taken back, if I could have. I spoke quickly to change the subject and, hopefully, keep him from saying anything else about that last bit. “Alright, your turn again, yeah?”

“I mean,” he sounded unsure of what to say or do next, and I felt bad. I’d taken his game and made it something that had become uncomfortable for both of us. “If you want to keep going.”

I forced lightness and levity into my voice, “Yeah, of course. Let’s do it.”

“Okay then, give me a second.” He hummed and even mumbled on the other end of the phone, low murmurs of  _ nah, too easy  _ and  _ ooh, but that’s too tough _ . It took all I had not to giggle out loud, and while I waited for him to settle on a question I mentally thanked him for being so willing to change the subject and move past the things I’d just said. “Alright, you ready?” he finally asked.

“Yep.” I switched the phone to speaker and laid it on the couch in front of me, hugging a spare pillow to my chest with my now-free hand and settling a little deeper into the cushions.

“Okay. Now think about this carefully, alright?”

“Just ask your question.”

“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you!” His voice took on a slightly sing-songy tone and he drew out the ‘you’ longer than was really necessary. 

“Consider me duly warned.” I stifled a yawn and cast my eyes up toward the window just above the arm of the couch; even for November it was extremely dark and I realized the time had slipped away from me since we’d been on the phone. 

“Alright then, books, or movies?”

I narrowed my eyes and nearly glared at the phone in confusion. “You’re not serious.”

He scoffed, and I could tell he was trying to sound offended. “Of course I am.”

“Have you …” I trailed off for a second, then, “have you forgotten who you’re talking to? I’m an  _ English teacher,  _ Christopher.” It was the first time I’d ever used his full first name, and it felt odd, but also natural, somehow.

“I’m very aware of that. But you’re also a  _ drama  _ teacher. So which is it?”

I knew he couldn’t see my face, but if he could have, he’d have seen me roll my eyes and shake my head at him. “Books. Absolutely.” He hummed, something between an  _ I see  _ and an  _ oh really now _ . “There are some great movie adaptations out there, for sure, but still, I can’t think of a time when the movie was actually  _ better _ than the book, or didn’t change something that should have been kept.”

“So,” he started, and I could tell just from the tone of his voice that he was going to challenge me somehow, “when I was at your house the last time I saw the full set of  _ Hunger Games  _ movies and Greta Gerwig’s  _ Little Women  _ in your tv cabinet. What about those?”

“Both amazing,” I asserted, “and some of the best adaptations I’ve ever seen. But the  _ Hunger Games  _ movies played up the love triangle aspect  _ way  _ too much. I get it, makes it a little spicier and a little more appealing to your typical teen and young adult movie audience, but it wasn’t the true point of the story. I mean, in the books, it was hardly a triangle at all.” I took a deep breath that turned into a yawn that managed to slip out before I could cover it like I had the first one. It sounded like he was starting to say something, so I went on quickly. “And Gerwig’s  _ Little Women  _ is gorgeous and made me see some of the characters in a whole new way, but it also offered up a whole different ending. And there’s just something about that book, the story of a young writer, that just begs to be read and experienced on the page. So yeah, I love those movies, but I still stand by my answer.”

“Wow,” he said, kind of matter-of-factly. “So this is something you’ve spent some time thinking about, then.”

I chuckled a little. “Oh yes. Very much. That being said, though,” I felt my cheeks burning, “I actually thought your ‘Defending Jacob’ was much better than the book. But that wasn’t a movie, so … actually,” I laughed, “you should have asked me to pick between movies and tv. You probably would have learned more that way. It definitely would have been a tougher one for me to answer.”

“Dammit,” he hissed, “missed opportunity.” I just hummed back at him in agreement. “And I’m not sure if I should believe that, about ‘Defending Jacob,’ after what you just said, but I guess I’ll just accept the compliment.”

“It’s 100,” I yawned for a second time, a little squeak coming out at the end as I shook my head sharply, “100% true.”

“Okay, I pretended not to hear it the first time,” I felt like I was about to be scolded, “but that’s twice now you’ve yawned on me. Either I’m really boring or you’re really tired, but either way, I think I should let you go.”

“Uh-uh,” I protested, “You haven’t answered yet,  _ and  _ I’ve got one more turn.”

“Are you sure -,”

“You owe me.”

“Okay, okay,” his voice was mock-defensive and I imagined I could see his hands thrown up in surrender. “Well, to start with, I love to read, but most of my reading is non-fiction. Science, philosophy, history, the occasional biography or memoir.” Somehow, that didn’t come as a surprise at all. “It feels really, I don’t know, self-serving, I guess, to say this, but when it comes to storytelling and entertainment, I gotta say movies.”

I groaned. “Ugh. Typical Hollywood elite.”

“Nerd,” he countered, and in my attempt to keep him from hearing my laugh I actually snorted. My face felt like it had just gone up in flames.

“Did you just -”

“Shut up. It’s my turn.”

Unlike me, he didn’t try to hide his laughter. “Fine. Ask away.”

I was glad he’d taken it easy on me with his last question, because that made me feel like I could do the same without somehow feeling like I was losing our little game. My next question had actually popped into my head while I was wracking my brain for my previous one, but I’d wanted something with a little more weight. It was perfect after the one he’d just asked, though. “Okay,” I drawled, watching the phone as if I could see him through it, “are you ready? I want you to think about this one  _ very carefully  _ before you answer.”

He sighed heavily into the phone. “Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.” I loved how I could tell that he was joking, playing along with me. With nearly anyone else, anyone really except my very closest friends, my anxiety would get the best of me and I’d start to overthink, to worry that I’d said something wrong or just not expressed myself well or that he actually wasn’t enjoying himself. I rarely did that with him, though. Sure, I embarrassed myself, sometimes, but even then our conversations were always easy, comfortable; it was why I’d felt such a pull to call him to lift my spirits.

“Okay,” I waited, creating a long, drawn-out pause, then finally, “peanut butter, chunky, or creamy?”

I heard him suck in a breath. “I have a feeling there’s a right and wrong answer here.”

“Oh there absolutely is.”

“Well then, give me a minute to think.”

“Come  _ on _ ,” I teased, “it’s a very simple question and everyone knows their answer without having to think about it.”

“Okay fine, but you have to promise that you won’t end our friendship if I say the wrong thing.”

“I make no such promises.” I bit my bottom lip, grinning. It felt good to be so silly, goofy, to lose myself in this little world we’d created where things that meant nothing took on great importance and everything was treated both as a matter of life and death and something to be giggled at.

He sighed again then finally blurted out, “Chunky. Extra chunky, actually, if possible.” I didn’t say anything, and the silence dragged on. “Oh come on,” he whined, “don’t leave me hanging. Is that the right answer?”

“It’s a bold answer, I’ll give you that.” I waited just another second, then finally told him. “And it is absolutely the right answer.”

“Yes!” he hissed, and I envisioned his fist pumping at his side. “Even the extra crunchy part?”

“Oh my god, yes. It is  _ the best _ .”

“Right?” He sounded excited. “Creamy peanut butter is just, it’s like …” he trailed off, looking for a comparison, but before he could land on one I supplied one for him.

“Paste.”

“Yes! Paste! I need some  _ texture _ .”

It was honestly endearing, cute, even, how sincere he sounded about such an inconsequential topic. And I didn’t hate that he was one of the few people who actually agreed with me on the topic. “For twelve and a half years,” I told him, my voice reflective and faraway, but not exactly sad, “I had to buy two different jars. And if I ran out and it wasn’t my turn to go shopping, well, no peanut butter for me until my next trip.”

“You can’t have peanut butter and jelly with creamy peanut butter. It’s just wrong.” I giggled at his response. “What, you disagree?”

“No! I completely agree! A p-b-and-j with creamy peanut butter is just, ugh, it’s a big mushy mess.”

“Sweetheart, you do have a way with words. I can see why you’re an English teacher.”

My face flared at the term of endearment, even more so because it was the second time he’d used it in one conversation (I knew it didn’t  _ mean _ anything, that’s just how he was, but I couldn’t help the way it made my cheeks heat up regardless). “Yeah, well, we use the talents we’re given.”

He laughed, and I was proud of how many times I’d been able to make him do that. I  _ wasn’t  _ proud of the yawn that escaped and made him groan. “Okay. That’s it. Off to bed with you, missy.”

“I’m so sorry,” I insisted. “I don’t even really know why I’m so tired all of a sudden.” Except, I kind of did. I’d been so stressed, so tense when I called him, and over the course of our conversation that had all slipped away. And, apparently, as I’d relaxed, my body had also decided it was time to let go and go to sleep.

“Hey, no need to apologize. If anything I should feel bad for keeping you up.”

“No no, not at all. But you’re probably right, I should probably go. I’m going to try to force myself into the gym early tomorrow.”

He hummed in agreement and didn’t say anything for a second. Then, “Hey, I’m really glad you called. I meant it when I told you you should, I always do, but I never expect you to actually take me up on it.”

“Hey, I promised, right?” He chuckled a little and murmured a quiet  _ you did _ . “And like I said, I wanted to hear a friendly voice, and it doesn’t get much friendlier than yours.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, a little more seriously than I would have expected, and all I could think was  _ what else could it possibly be?  _ “And on that note, I’ll get off here so you can go to bed.”

“Okay. G’night, Chris. And thank you.”

“Night.”

I didn’t move, just watching the phone until the screen flashed to show that he’d hung up on his end. And in fact, I didn’t move after that either, except to pull the blanket from the back of the couch down over me. I was comfortable, I was relaxed, and I was happy; maybe if I stayed right where I was I could keep that feeling going until I fell asleep.


End file.
